


The Night In Question

by notallwindows



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Narration by John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:56:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5304812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallwindows/pseuds/notallwindows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I speak of a singular night that brought a peculiar, and most queer man to 221B Baker Street. The man in question is tall and pale, with great sunken eyes, and his mannerisms are most reminiscent of a spider. His name, as I found out belatedly, is Richard Brook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night In Question

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows some conventions of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock, and some conventions of BBC Sherlock. It's kind of a mix between the two. John narrates, then Sherlock narrates. Also, John Watson is married.

Shortly after my marriage, on a quiet July evening, I found my old friend Sherlock Holmes sitting quietly in my consulting-room. 

He sat by the fire in his characteristic pose, soundlessly contemplating while staring at the flickering ambers. When he heard my footsteps, he unfurled his fingers around his shins, and stretched his long legs out. In one smooth motion, he was on his feet, and one would have never thought that he was curled up on the armchair just a moment ago.

“Watson,” he greeted, smiling wanly, “I see domestic bliss is suiting you well. What say you we reminisce over some drinks?”

His voice was thin and rough, as if he was on the verge of catching a cold. His face was pale, and the circles below his eyes were slightly more pronounced, as if he had not been sleeping well. The pupils of his eyes further supported my theory, as they were dilated, a prominent symptom of lack of sleep. His countenance was thinner, and as a result his cheekbones were more defined, giving his face an angular and sharp quality. I could see that living on his own was not doing him any favours.

There was a dingy pub not far off. Although I could not remember the name, hard as I tried, I remembered that it was singularly known for wide selection of gins and tonics. It was a twenty-minute walk away, but by cab it was only a few minutes away. I had finished my work for the night, and nothing loomed in the foreseeable future. 

Grabbing my coat from the coat stand, I agreed to his amicable suggestion, and suggested the pub down the road. 

“Shall we walk?” I said, sticking my arm into the thing. A walk would do him much good, as would fresh air.

“Ah,” said Holmes knowingly, pacing to the fire and back, “alas, it is drizzling. Perhaps if the weather were finer, Watson.”

Pulling open the curtains, I saw with dismay that he was indeed right. Drizzling had been an understatement, as rain poured down in sheets like fine, white mist. 

Grabbing our hats and an umbrella, we stepped outside into the chilly rain. Soon, a cab passed by the establishment, its yellow headlights illuminating the relentless rain. Without the light, the dark colouring of the taxi blended in congruously with the night.

“Taxi!” I exclaimed, teeth chattering, waving my arms madly. As the cab slowed, I ushered Sherlock onto the vehicle, and shook the water off the maroon umbrella. 

“Loch and Stone Tavern,” Holmes said. The driver grunted, and the cab sped off.

Within a few minutes, we had arrived at the Loch and Stone. Paying the cab with a handful of coins, I stepped off after Sherlock, who had taken the umbrella with him.

The exterior of the pub was just as I remembered, with an old peeling sign proclaiming ‘LOCH AND STONE TAVERN’, and in smaller words below, ‘BREAKFAST ALL DAY’.

We walked into the dimly-lit pub, and the bell above the door chimed to announce our arrival. A few patrons glanced up from their drinks, but otherwise we were not acknowledged. 

Inside the pub, it was no warmer than it was outside. Holmes and I endeavoured to keep our coats on, noting the empty coat stand despite the reasonably filled pub. 

The interior was rustic and could be considered charming, if only it were not so poorly kept. The hanging lamps cast a yellow light on every surface, and made the chairs and tables seem older than they really were. The counter was shiny with use, and littered with scratches. On the shelf, there stood the famed collection of gins and tonics. A quiet flute melody was playing, washing over the chatter of the customers. 

“Will you be getting the usual?” Holmes asked, referring to the draught beer I often had when we stopped at pubs during our cases. For a moment, I was overcome with the most wonderful, and painful nostalgia.

Holmes returned with my honey-coloured beer in a tumbler, along with a martini with a stick of three olives, stuffed with pimentos.

As way of preamble, Holmes assured me that he was doing well. He spoke of his recent adventures, while I shared my own stories of work.

“The gin is quite adequate,” he commented, tilting the glass slowly, even as I scrutinised him. “Although, that is the best I could say about it.”

We toasted to each other’s health, and he stared at his drink forlornly while I sipped my beer. Like Holmes’ martini, the best I could say was that it was adequate. 

He did not speak of the fatigue and restlessness he was inadvertently experiencing. His eyes, dull and tired, kept scanning the surroundings, as if in anticipation. I could no longer stand to see Holmes scan the vicinity with such intent. He was incredibly fidgety too, and had been restlessly tapping his feet in a rhythm on the floor. Tap tap tap, his feet went. Taptaptaptap tap tap tap. It was making me incredibly unnerved.

“Why Holmes, you are ill-rested and in desperate need of sleep! Living alone is not doing you any good. Look how restless you are tonight!” I cried, concerned for the well being of my dearest friend.

“Watson, I am indeed looking for a flat-mate,” he said, ceasing his tapping abruptly, and sighing. Popping an olive into his mouth and chewing slowly, he appeared thoughtful for a moment, sighing once more.

“I have put up an advertisement, but no one has applied, or shown any remote interest. Surely you noticed the flyer pinned outside the door? It is most dreadfully ugly.” he said, leaning forwards intently. I realised that he was seeking my opinion on the flyer on the door.

I could not say that I had any, for I had not passed by my old apartment in weeks, after moving out. I realised how little time I had spared for Holmes, and thought of how I had not even thought to check up on how he was doing. A wave of guilt washed over me.

“No matter,” he said irately, waving his hand slightly as he took a sip of his martini. “Mrs. Hudson is asking me to take it down soon, if no one calls. She says it is the most horrid thing she has seen.”

By this time, the transparent liquid in his glass could not have occupied more than a fifth of the glass, for he had been nursing the same drink for the past twenty minutes. 

Just then, the bell chimed, signalling the arrival of a newcomer. Holmes almost jumped up from his seat. I imagined his nerves were so frayed, that the smallest of sounds were unbearable to this poor man. 

The newcomer was dressed drably in black robes, and the end of his robes gave way to reveal two thin legs poking out of drab trousers. The darkness of his robes accentuated the unnatural paleness of his features. He was very tall, and had to bend slightly to fit the door. The black only accentuated his pale features, and in particular his sunken eyes stuck out. He was hunchbacked, and his head swivelled from side to side like an owl’s. 

“Why Watson, I believe I may have found a man,” he said nonchalantly.

For a moment, I thought Holmes was referring to the possibility that this man should be his new flat-mate, but I realised that it was more likely he was talking of taking this chap home. Looking at him more cryptically, I could not see what Holmes saw in him. He resembled a spider in all his mannerisms, and I was thoroughly nonplussed. I could not imagine picking a less likely person to take home and spend the night with.

Holmes, on rare occasions, had spoken of his attraction to the aesthetic of both men and women. This did not disgust or perturb me to my surprise, having never given much thought to the subject matter before. 

During our stint as flat-mates, he occasionally visited bars, the type youngsters these days were drawn to. He complained of how loud and rowdy these establishments were the next day, when he returned, sober as could be, and without the slightest trace of a hangover. 

Rarer still were the days when he brought a lady or bloke home. Again, he complained of how these subjects had the tendency to run for the hills, when they saw the walls pockmarked with bullets, and found papers nailed to the centre of the wooden mantelpiece by a jack-knife. I did not blame them in the slightest.

“Him?” I asked incredulously. Holmes nodded, drumming his fingers on the surface of the table. Taptaptaptap tap tap tap, his deft fingers went.

“Forgive me, Watson, if I were to leave your company for a while,” said Holmes, tossing back the last sliver of liquid left in his glass, ceasing his drumming on the tabletop. He had schooled his face into a cool expression, but the excitement danced in his eyes. I had not seen him look this alive all evening.

“No matter, Holmes,” I assured him, glancing at the clock hanging on the mantel. I was most alarmed, but neither Holmes nor I was drunk, and he could take care of himself. By the blazes, it was already a quarter to nine. “I have to return home anyhow.” 

I drained the last of my beer while Holmes sat, watching me intently. When my glass was at last empty, I banged the glass down on the tabletop, and wiped at my moustache. 

Waving goodbye to my friend, I stepped out of the pub. I saw him get up from his seat, and walk towards the man. They appeared to engage in conversation. I sighed and turned to wrap my coat around my frame.

The rain had mercifully subsided, but a light drizzle still remained. Even worse, the chill of the night had set in. The freezing air hit me, and I lowered my hat, shielding my face from the unforgiving cold. Waiting in vain for a cab for about five minutes, I resolved to walk home in the miserable weather. Gritting my teeth, I made it home in under ten and five minutes, my joints protesting most indignantly.

*

The next morning, I was intent on visiting Sherlock Holmes. After seeing him last night, I was determined to see that he should be taking care of himself.

So at a respectable hour, I set off from my residence and hailed a cab to my former apartment. Rapping the knocker smartly, I waited for Holmes to answer the door. As sometimes he would be so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he did not hear the door, I prepared myself to wait until he was ready to come down to get the door, and try again.

Contrary to what Holmes had said, there was no advertisement on the door. This, as you can imagine, immensely puzzled me. I admit that I was curious, after last night, about how horrendous the flyer could be.

I was still pondering over the missing advertisement when Mrs. Hudson opened the door slightly, then all at once when she saw me, standing outside the door. Throwing open the door, she gasped audibly, and patted my shoulder awkwardly.

“Oh John!” she exclaimed, looking overjoyed. Her voice was choked with emotion.

Mrs. Hudson still looked the same as the last time I had seen her. Her hair was still cropped short, and a muted, mousy blonde shade. She was wearing oven mittens and smelt of something chocolaty, and burning charcoal. In a purple gown, she looked as matronly as ever.

I extended my arms, and she wrapped me in a tight embrace. The oven mittens were still hot.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, how are you doing?” I asked, patting her shoulder. 

“Oh! I’m fine,” she said impatiently, “But you must know, yesterday Sherlock brought home this most lovely man, and I was making breakfast for this man, since Sherlock doesn’t do this quite so often anymore. They may still be sleeping.” 

I do not know if I was more surprised by Mrs. Hudson describing the man as lovely, or by the fact that Holmes had brought him home at all.

“Would you be so kind as to go up and wake the both of them up? If you could stay, John, we could all have breakfast together.” Mrs. Hudson hummed and turned her back to me, rubbing her mittened hands together.

When I made it up the stairs to the quarters Holmes and I had shared for the longest time, the first thing I saw was the man from yesterday, still dressed in his morbid robes, sitting in Holmes’ best armchair, and smoking one of Holmes’ cigarette!

Clearing my throat once to get the attention of this stranger, lest I frighten him, I asked, “Where may Holmes be?”

I was so startled, that I forgot to offer any semblance of a greeting. You must forgive me, for I was truly surprised at the sight of this stranger, smoking away merrily and depositing the ash in the ashtray, all as natural as could be.

The man swivelled his head to glance at me, his sunken eyes staring at me. He arranged his face into a smile that did not reach his eyes, and rose slowly from the chair, mushing the lit end of the cigarette in the ashtray. At that moment, I noted the countless other stubs in the ashtray. The conclusion reached me at once that this man must be a chain-smoker, and had stayed up all night, smoking away at the cigarettes Holmes had stashed in the coalscuttle, while Holmes himself was God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what.

“Your friend was most generous in joining me for a few smokes last night,” said he, coughing once. His voice was thin, and carried a slight Irish lilt.

I had the most terrible image in my mind, of this man reaching into the depths of his robes, pulling out a dagger, and offing Holmes, while he was distracted over a cigarette. 

Before I could say anything, Holmes walked out of his bedroom, still dressed in last night’s clothes. He looked to be in a better state than when I had last seen him, and his hair was mused with sleep. It was evident that he had not shaved that morning, for he had a five o’clock shadow. I suspect that he had a good night’s sleep, perhaps the first in many a night.

“I heard the sound of conversation,” he offered as explanation, blinking rapidly, and scratching at the stiff material of his shirt. “Ah, hello Watson. Richard Brook, John Watson. John Watson, Richard Brook.”

The man, Brook, looked at me, and nodded. I nodded back at him. We both did not move from our spots.

“I will be going now; goodbye, Sherlock Holmes,” said Brook, wrapping the robe tighter around himself slowly, as if it were a shield to protect himself.

“Do consider my offer,” Holmes said, waving his hand at the man in lazy farewell. He did not make to move as the man started down the staircase.

“Wait!” I cried, remembering Mrs. Hudson’s breakfast, “Do consider staying for breakfast, Mr. Brook!”

There was no response, only the sound of shuffling of feet down the stairs. 

I turned to Holmes exasperatedly. He shrugged, and yawned, turning his back on me momentarily.

“I suspect that he is rather introverted,” he said simply as an explanation for Brook’s rejection. “Now if you will excuse me, I will join you again after I am more presentable, and go with you for breakfast.”

With that, he made for the bathroom, leaving me in our living room. I gathered the ashtray filled with the ends of cigarettes, and emptied it into the dustbin.

Now that I had time to examine the room, I noticed that Sherlock had not made many changes to it since I had left. The unanswered correspondences on the mantelpiece still number many, and the stacks of papers all over the room were still unorganised as ever. The curtains were more riddled with dust than the last time I had seen them, and I resolved to remind Holmes to clean them once he was done grooming.

After ten minutes, Holmes exited the bathroom, looking fresh in a new set of clothes. Seeing the look in my eye, he smiled at me. 

“I didn’t expect to see you after so soon,” he said magnanimously.

I nodded, and extended my hands in an exaggerated gesture.

“Shall we go to Mrs. Hudson’s for breakfast?” he asked, weaving his arm energetically through mine, as little children were wont to do with their best friends.

I remembered that I had not particularly mentioned that Mrs. Hudson was making breakfast, but Holmes must have known somehow. It must be the smell of burning things, and something vaguely chocolate, which had made its way ominously into our apartment.

Together, we made our way down the stairs. I brought up the topic of the dusty curtains, and Holmes merely laughed. 

“I should not have expected that to get past your keen eye for detail,” said he, eyes twinkling.

Holmes was in a surprisingly good mood this morning, and I was sure what the cause of this was. The gloomy, twisted, despondent man from last night. Christ, what a dismal thought, that such a character could cheer my friend up to such a degree; it was unfathomable.

Mrs. Hudson greeted us eagerly at her door with her mittens. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her forehead was beaded with sweat.

“Do come in!” she squeaked, endeavouring to wrap her arms around Holmes and I at the same time. We were squashed together for an awkward moment, and Holmes coughed deeply before Mrs. Hudson let us go.

“Oh, the food isn’t quite done yet, but do take a seat…”

Mrs. Hudson rushed into the kitchen, where thick smoke was coming out alarmingly in streams. The smoke detector started wailing at the moment we stepped into her apartment, and sprinkles of water started spraying from the ceiling over the whole apartment. 

I screamed most unbecomingly and shielded my face with my arms, while Holmes calmly walked into the kitchen.

“Perhaps we should go to Speedy’s,” Mrs. Hudson suggested, speaking loudly to be heard over the wailing, dejectedly removing her soggy mittens. While the café next door served good eggs and bacon, I could not stand seeing Mrs. Hudson upset.

I hastily shouted over the alarm that, no, everything was fine, while Holmes disabled the smoke detector. The blaring noise and torrent of water came to an abrupt stop. Thank goodness.

In under ten minutes, we were gathered around her dining room table, and Mrs. Hudson had brought to the table a basket of perfectly brown chocolate croissants. They were miraculously, neither burnt nor wet.

“I don't understand,” I begun, but Holmes had stepped on my feet, and shook his head at me in warning. Don’t ask. 

Mrs. Hudson beamed at us, and produced four glasses of orange juice. 

It was then that she noticed the man from last night was not present. 

“Where is the lovely man, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked, turning to Holmes for an explanation, with an uncomprehending expression on her face. She seemed genuinely concerned and let down. I could not imagine anyone describing Brook as ‘lovely’, as he was as far off from the word as possible, but perhaps Mrs. Hudson saw in him what Sherlock Holmes had.

“He left in the morning.” Holmes said calmly, grabbing a croissant. “Lovely breakfast, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson beamed at him, and instantly schooled her face into a stern expression. “Sherlock, you two were certainly loud last night! Has an old woman no right to rest, and a good night of sleep?”

I choked on my orange juice and started coughing loudly and most obnoxiously, just as Holmes thumped me across me firmly across the back in one smooth motion, and said apologetically, “I realised that violin-playing in the middle of the night can hardly be considered civil.”

“Quite rightly so, young man.” Mrs. Hudson conceded, passing a basket of napkins in my general direction.

It was at that point that I happened to gag and reel most unattractively towards the table. What on earth were Holmes and the man doing last night? It was beyond me why the violin should be involved.

Mrs. Hudson, startled by my coughing fit, then turned to me. “Have you met the man? Richard?”

It should not have surprised me that Mrs. Hudson knew the man’s name. Mrs. Hudson made it her business to know the names of each and every one of Holmes’ one-night stands, which had led to some increasingly awkward conversations in the past. 

“Yes,” I said, lying through my teeth, “he is indeed, a very lovely man.”

Holmes smiled at me, but the look in his eyes informed that he was well aware that I was far from speaking the truth. Mrs. Hudson just beamed at me.

“I have asked Richard Brook to move in,” he announced theatrically, and I choked on the orange juice for the second time in the day. 

“John!” Mrs. Hudson chided, pressing a napkin into my hand. Turning to Holmes, she congratulated him heartily.

“Is he not a chain smoker?” I cried. I could not see a less likely candidate for Holmes’ flat-mate, and voiced the first objective opinion of the man I had, for I could not exclaim, “Is he not shady and entirely too pale and lifeless?”

“My dear Watson, you are mistrustful of this man, who possesses virtues and vices, not unlike any other man.” Holmes said matter-of-factly.

“What is this about Richard chain-smoking?” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, leaning forward with a croissant in her hand.

“Brook and I had a smoke together last night,” Holmes said simply.

Picking up another croissant casually, he put an end to the conversation with his dismissive gesture. 

“He has not answered in the affirmative that he is indeed coming to stay,” Holmes mused. “I am positive, however, that we have not seen the last of Richard Brook.”

I could not help but hope, for the sake of my friend, that Richard Brook did not move into the apartment. I had many misgivings about the man, and although my intuition is neither as sharp or refined as that of Sherlock Holmes’, I was determined that my apprehension was not without reason. 

 

*

After the breakfast, I had felt guilty enough about neglecting to remain in contact with my old friend, that I asked him if he would be averse to meeting up for lunch once in a while.

Holmes and I managed to find a common time to meet up for a weekly luncheon. Without fail, we found ourselves at Speedy’s each Wednesday, at around noontime. Mrs. Hudson caught wind of our weekly reunion and occasionally graced our lunches. She was always cheery, and asked about how Holmes and I were doing.

Mrs. Hudson offered to cook up lunch for us sometimes, so we ate at her apartment instead on occasion. One week, Mrs. Hudson whipped up the most spectacular roast beef, and a plum pudding for dessert. 

“Why, Mrs. Hudson, what is the occasion,” I joked.

“Why Watson, you are the occasion.” Holmes quipped. Mrs. Hudson turned to wink at me. I was embarrassed, and I was certain that colour flooded my cheeks.

After the month had passed, and Holmes had not brought up the matter of Richard Brook moving into the apartment, I had assumed that either Brook had not taken Holmes up on his offer, or that Holmes had finally come to his senses, and retracted his offer.

I was, however, grievously wrong. Five weeks later, when I arrived at the café, Holmes was already sat at our usual table near the window, and to my horror, I recognised the sullen man next to him as Richard Brook. The man seated next to Holmes merely twisted his lips into a forced smile when he caught sight of me.

Holmes walked up to me, smiling when he saw my expression, aghast with horror. Pulling me into an embrace, he patted my back gently, and said, “Now, now, Watson, don’t be a killjoy…”

Richard Brook stood up when he saw me approaching. He was wearing a drab grey sweater over a pair of pants. Thankfully he had shed the ugly black robe, but it was not much of an improvement. In this dull garb, he still looked too pale. His face was arranged into a twisted smile, and he stuck out his hand for me to shake. 

The grey of his sweater did not do much good for his pale complexion, and I could not help but think that if he resembled one of the many cadavers I had dissected in medical school. His long, bony fingers were certainly no warmer. 

“I believe that the two of you have been acquainted,” Holmes said, clasping his hands together. “Watson, Brook has finally showed at the apartment, just this morning, with his bags.”

Brook nodded, and smiled tolerantly. From his expression, it could not be more apparent that if he knew that our luncheon was on Wednesday, he would have picked another day to bring his bags over. 

“Brook, I wanted to acquaint you with Dr. John Watson, my oldest friend, who just this May, has gotten married to a lovely lady by the name of Mary Morstan, although I am certain that you have inferred that for yourself already.”

Brook nodded solemnly. Seeing the astonished expression on my face, Holmes smiled and turned to me. 

“Oh, Watson, you are crystal clear. Richard Brook, not unlike myself, specialises in the science of deductions.”

Surely not another ‘consulting detective’, I thought in astonishment. This morning was turning out to be nothing but surprises.

“Watson,” Brook said, clearing his throat. “It is a pleasure.”

His tone said that it was anything but.

“The pleasure is all mine,” said I, feeling extremely wrong-footed. 

Holmes looked extremely pleased at our reconciliation. His lips were upturned, and his eyes were bright.

“I am glad we are off to a good start,” said he, smiling contently. “And now, we should really turn to our food.”

*

Watson has, to my amusement, yet to stop pestering me about how Richard Brook came to share my apartment. Before breakfast with Mrs. Hudson, he seemed content to presume that I had slept with Brook, but his curiosity has, alas, gotten the better of him.

His account of the story, understandingly, tapers off after he left the Loch and Stone on that fateful evening. Watson, bless him, has asked me to fill in the gaps of his limited understanding of the development of the relationship between Brook and I. It is of course, none of his business, but for this occasion, I have kindly obliged him with the account.

I feel compelled to state that I was never intent on sleeping with Richard Brook.

After Watson left and stood outside in the hostile weather, waiting in vain for a cab that would never come, I slide into the unoccupied seat next to this pale, tall man. If he was surprised to see me, I could not tell, for his puckered eyes gave no indication of emotion.

“Are you not even intent on buying me a drink?” the man said, shaking his head at my etiquette, although his voice was teasing.

“Any you would like,” said I, playing along.

“Luckily for you, I am averse to alcohol,” he said, turning his head to examine something in the far corners of the pub.

At this point, I was determined to offer this man something. Reaching in my pocket, I produced a packet of cigarettes. Noting that there were only two left, I took one out, and placed it on the tabletop, which was mercifully, clean.

“I should hope that you are not averse to smoking,” I said nonchalantly, although this man exhibited all of the signs associated with smoking. When pulling, I found that it was of immeasurable importance to not show that I knew too much.

“You know I am not,” he snapped, snatching up the cigarette, and producing a lighter from his pocket. “I know who you are. The illustrious Sherlock Holmes.”

“I must say that I am most flattered to know that you recognise me,” I said, smiling slightly. “Would you be against the idea of spending a night with me?”

The man grumbled and stood up, pushing his chair in behind him. We made it out of the pub when a taxi with blinding lights rounded the corner to the pub. The rain had, thankfully, stopped by now. It was undeniably chilly, and the wind blew from every direction.

“Taxi!” I yelled, as the man grumbled some more and snuffed out his perfectly good cigarette in one of the many puddles on the ground.

In a few minutes, we reached my apartment. The man hopped off the cab as soon as it had stopped, and started walking away at a brisk pace. I feared that if I did not pay the fare fast enough, he would have gone off into the night!

As the man knew my name, it was unsurprising that he stopped outside the door with the bold sign ‘221B’, and was waiting for me with all the outward signs of impatience a man could show. 

“I don’t go home with strangers who don’t know my name,” he complained, thin lips twisting up into a wicked smile. 

It was at this moment that I seriously entertained the possibility of this man moving in with me. Reaching the door, I noticed the ugly, neon poster that I had done up, calling for potential flat-mates to contact via mail. Tearing it off, I thrust it deep into my pocket.

“What do you go by, then,” I asked, humouring the man.

“Richard Brook,” the man said, the words rolling off his tongue.

He had a defined Irish accent, and his words, they were extremely practiced, and I knew at once that he was either famous or lying. Fire danced in his shrunken eyes, and I knew that he knew that I knew too. He was smiling most in a most horrid manner.

Making no comment, I unlocked the door and led us in. At the sound of the door, Mrs. Hudson came running.

“Oh Sherlock, it’s you! I thought it was a very loud burglar…” she trailed off when she saw the man. “Who is this, Sherlock?”

“Richard Brook,” Brook said, extending his pale hand for Mrs. Hudson to shake. 

Mrs. Hudson beamed at him and shook his hands. “Martha Hudson,” she said. She turned to me and smiled knowingly, although I doubt that her understanding of the relationship between Richard Brook and I was accurate.

“Goodnight Sherlock! Goodnight Mr. Brook!” she said, still beaming. 

“Do call me Richard,” Brook said, composing his face into what he surely thought was a winning smile, and I was certain at that instant that a more perfect man for flat-mate could not exist.

When Mrs. Hudson disappeared to go off to bed, Brook turned to me. 

“Your landlady is very matronly. Widowed?” he asked casually, running his hands over the railing of the stairs. His back was to me, and I could not see his face, but it could not be clearer that the twisted grin was on his face.

The innocent question at the end of the statement, the simple suggestion that Mrs. Hudson was a widow, suggested something deeper about his character. 

You must understand that it is rare to find a man who appreciates the science of deduction, and the excitement I felt at discovering that this man possessed the rare gift was ineffable. If you remember, when Watson and I had first met, he had called this science a load of ‘twaddle’. To see this man so naturally infer from the slightest evidence, was as if something had come alive inside of me. A like-minded fellow! 

Before I could react, the man turned his back to me, and started climbing. His thin legs moved at a most astonishing rate, and in no time at all he had scaled the seventeen steps.

“A bit eager now, are we,” I said, satisfied to be able to prod at this man.

“I would not wish to stand here in the freezing cold for even one unnecessary moment,” he snarled with no malice, whirling on the balls of his feet to face me.

When I unlocked my door, he made for my armchair without an invitation, crossing his long legs in a smooth motion. He did not make any move to remove any outerwear.

“Do get a good fire going, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, raising his eyebrows to indicate the cold metal grills of my fireplace. I decided that I rather liked the way he said my name, and decided not to chastise him for being a shit.

I complied, and within minutes, a roaring fire was burning away merrily. It was then that he groaned with pleasure at the warmth and made a move to part his robes. He closed his eyes and leaned backwards into the chair, exposing his pale and long neck. His complexion was white and smooth like marble, reminding one of fermenting yoghurt, broken only by his protruding Adam’s apple.

Getting my ashtray from the mantelpiece, I sat down in the chair Watson always occupied, opposite mine. 

“I will light up now, if you don't mind,” I said, producing my lighter and the pack with only one cigarette left.

Without answering, he extended a hand towards me. His eyes were still closed.

“It’s my last one,” I said, striking the lighter. “I would be a damned fool to give it to you.”

Humming, he smiled insidiously, lips curving up. 

“Have you never heard of sharing,” he mocked. “Or is the great Sherlock Holmes above passing petty cigarettes back and forth with another man.”

We passed the cigarette between us, as he suggested, until only the brown stub remained. During this experience, we did not exchange a single word. His eyes remained close, and only the wisps of smoke like wisps curled intangibly between us. 

As I snubbed the cigarette against the ashtray, extinguishing the ambers remaining at the tip, this man reached into the folds of his robes, and produced an unopened pack of cigarettes, still intact within its neat foil wrapping. With a cry, I sprung from Watson’s armchair in mock-rage.

“Oh, do be civil, Sherlock Holmes,” he chided lazily, opening his eyes and rolling them, exposing the whites. “It’s not as if you don’t have more smokes stored in your coalscuttle.”

Grabbing the coalscuttle, I sat down once more. The man opposite me uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again, and stuffed the foil wrapping back into the inner pockets of his robe. His smug expression was that of a lion, that had discovered a mangled carcass during the driest seasons. 

After consuming more cigarettes in comfortable silence, I decided that I should retire for the night. Standing up, I turned my back to the fire, and stretched my arms above me. As I bent forward to shove the coalscuttle back to its place next to the fireplace, the man suddenly spoke.

“Play me a song before you go,” the man said, closing his eyes again.

He must have noticed the calluses on my fingertips from the violin, I told myself.

Wordlessly, I went to the washroom to wash my hands. Returning to the room, I picked up the case in the corner of the room, and took out my violin.

“Move in with me,” I said, looking into his dark eyes as I manoeuvred the chinrest under my chin, and settled my fingers on the neck, feeling the familiar strings under my hands. 

He made a non-committal sound, and I started the piece.

The man must have recognised the piece, I thought, as I moved the bow back and forth. He must have. 

As the piece concluded, I set the violin back into its somber case, and re-established it back to its rightful place, in the corner of the room.

“Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes,” the man said gently. He did not make a move to rise from my armchair.

“Goodnight,” I said, inclining my head, silently offering. You can join me anytime.

He nodded, turning to the fire with a smile. He parted his lips around his cigarette, and blew a neat circle of white smoke into the air.

I fell into a fitful sleep with a stranger, whose name I did not know, in my living room. 

My acquaintance with the man who calls himself Richard Brook, was not formed over a passionate tryst, as Watson may have imagined. As a matter of fact, I myself, have only an inkling as to how I became acquainted with a man, who as Watson says, so closely resembles a spider. 

*


End file.
